


too weak to be felt, too strong to be broken

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, and old habits die hard, it's all jamie's pov pretty much, they're both in the stands at anfield watching the match, this is about the barcelona match from earlier this month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 12:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie catches Stevie’s eye again, and tries not to think about how many times he’s done that this evening, how often his focus has been swayed from the men in red on the field to the man in red a row down and a few seats to his right.There’s a faint tremor in Stevie’s muscles, especially those of his shoulders and arms, just as Jamie had suspected.“You’re too wired,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Stevie’s temple, “we need to get you to unwind a little bit.”





	too weak to be felt, too strong to be broken

Jamie Carragher knows that his place in history is a small one.

 

He has set few records, and fewer still that will hold for the next fifty years.

 

He has won a few trophies, but even there, he sinks away into the background—his failures notable and his successes unremarkable.

 

He knows all this, and he is perfectly okay with it.

 

He hasn’t _always_ been okay with it, certainly. When he retired, he’d felt a restlessness in his chest, a feeling that whatever he had won, whatever he had accomplished, it wasn’t enough. It was a persistent itch, the knowledge that whatever he had done, it wouldn’t be enough to keep him from being forgotten.

 

But the years settle that restlessness. Exercise helps, too, and so does watching matches from the sidelines, surrounded by tens of thousands of spectators and feeling, for once, that that feeling of anonymity is a prize that he’s won, rather than a sentence handed to him by his body’s limitations.

 

This is what he tells himself, when he looks in the mirror and straightens his collar just the slightest bit, fixing the tuck of his white dress shirt into his pants.

 

He feels a queasy mixture of nervous and relieved. This far out from it, he can be relieved, that it’s not him that the spotlight is on, that it’s not his name that will be in all the headlines tomorrow, with claims that he’s not good enough and never will be.

 

And yet, that tiny, secret flicker of relief is swamped by a tidal wave of nerves, anxiety, the feeling of being helpless to affect the outcome, no matter how much he wants it.

 

He looks at himself for another moment, takes in all the gray in his hair, and takes a breath.

 

And then he goes.

 

Anfield is absolutely rocking. Any other team, maybe the fans would draw the logical conclusion to be drawn—not many could come back from 3-0 down against Barcelona, after all.

 

But these are Liverpool fans, Scouse through and through, no matter where it is they live. They’re absolutely mad, all of them, and Jamie feels the singing vibrate in his chest, and he can’t help but love them. He’s flooded with a sudden, delirious joy.

 

He’s one of them, now, and so he, too, raises his voice in song.

 

There’s a flicker of movement to his right and he turns to see Steven Gerrard settling into a seat.

 

His heart gives a treacherous throb, and he does his best to ignore its rebellion as he shouts a greeting and gives Stevie a wave and a toothy smile.

 

Stevie looks as nervous as Jamie had felt that morning, looking in the mirror with bile churning in his stomach.

 

The joy dims, ever so slightly, and he wishes that Stevie could feel it, too.

 

In the few quiet moments, in the brief lulls in between voices rising in song, his brain kicks in again, and reminds him that they’re probably going to lose. He doesn’t know it, like he would know it if he was playing against a team that hopelessly outclassed his, but he knows the chances are pretty good. His brain is doing its absolute best to keep him from hoping too much, but his foolish, reckless heart has taken the wheel, accelerating every faster into a disappointment he knows might be waiting for him.

 

He doesn’t care.

 

Every few minutes—or every few seconds, he doesn’t care to know—he looks at Stevie, at the tense line of his shoulders, at the way his hands are clasped together, as if he’s praying, just to have something to do that could make a difference somehow.

 

Jamie knows that if he were to touch him, right then, that there would be a fine trembling in his muscles, raring to go, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, and he thinks about how he had done everything he could think of to ease that trembling in Stevie’s frame, and how now, after all these years, he’s too far away and they’re in too public a place for him to do any of it.

 

Still, the fingers of his right hand ache, ever so slightly, to hold Stevie’s.

 

The boys come out looking lively, like they actually believe they can win it, and that makes Jamie believe them can win it, too.

 

It’s the seventh minute, with Hendo busting a gut sprinting across the pitch and taking a shot at goal. The keeper manages to block it, but it falls right to Origi, who puts it away easily.

 

Jamie’s up on his feet and screaming with everyone before he can even think, and he looks at Stevie again, as the players pile onto each other in celebration, and he grins at him.

 

They make eye contact for a moment, and even in that brief time, Jamie can feel Stevie’s eyes on him, the strange warmth that comes from being looked at by him.

 

 _Remember when that was us?_ Jamie thinks at him, as hard as he can, trying to convey the words with his face.

 

Stevie’s smile softens, for just a second, and there’s something else there—fondness, nostalgia, and regret.

 

Jamie wishes he could rub at the corner of Stevie’s lips until the regret goes, and it’s just fondness and a little bit of nostalgia left in that achingly familiar smile.

 

There’s a long, long period after that, where there’s nothing else. The first half ends, and there’s a lull for a minute or two as the players head back to the dressing rooms.

 

Jamie catches Stevie’s eye again, and tries not to think about how many times he’s done that this evening, how often his focus has been swayed from the men in red on the field to the man in red a row down and a few seats to his right.

 

Stevie smiles at him, but there’s tension in the fine lines around his eyes, and Jamie can’t do a damn thing to alleviate it. His hands ease their grip on each other ever so slightly, under the weight of Jamie’s eyes, and that will have to be enough.

 

After halftime, it starts again. Barcelona has a few golden chances that they manage to throw away—Jamie has waxed poetic about Lionel Messi dozens of times on television, and right now he could not be happier, watching him miss the goal.

 

Within ten minutes of the second half resuming, they score again, Trent sending in a cross and Wijnaldum shooting it hard and low, right into the center of the goal.

 

Jamie thinks back to his own brief stint as a right-back, and can’t find it in himself to envy Trent at all. He thinks about the handful of occasions Stevie’s played right back, and if he squints a little bit, Trent reminds him of a young, hungry Stevie, all arms and legs and skinny, but stronger than he looked.

 

Stevie looks proud, after that one, and Jamie remembers that he’d coached Trent, for a brief period, and he recognizes that fierce, fierce pride in his eyes, a distant cousin of the look he’d get from Stevie himself after a particularly good performance.

 

He doesn’t have long to think on it, because Wijnaldum wrestles the ball from a reluctant Ter Stegen and sprints back to the center circle to kick off again.

 

That’s the moment when even Jamie’s head starts to listen to his heart, and he knows that somehow, in some way, they’re going to win this.

 

He screams with the rest of the Kop as they urge the boys on, so close to drawing level now that they can almost taste it.

 

His gut is proven right just two minutes later, and Jamie could absolutely kiss Gini Wijnaldum right on the mouth, that’s how happy he is. He’s on his feet—he’d only barely sat down again after the last goal, and standing up helps his nerves, helping his get rid of the vestiges of anxious, frenetic energy.

 

He’s screaming so hard he can already tell that his voice is going to be hoarse tomorrow, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stevie looking at him and shouting just the same way, clapping, but when he turns to look, Stevie’s eyes are back on the pitch and there’s still a desperation to his line of his shoulders, to the slope of his trapezius, to the gentle curve of his neck—

 

He might be thinking about it a little too much, but his heart is racing and his arms are around the men on either side of him and they’re singing, all together, willing the team to push on, and he can’t find it in himself to monitor his thoughts on top of everything else.

 

Alisson is magnificent all night, countless saves that had Jamie’s heart in his throat and his fingernails ragged from the indents of his teeth.

 

Trent is taking a corner kick in the seventy-eighth minute, setting the ball down. But Shaqiri is heading towards him, and Trent accepts it, starts to move back towards the other players in the box—

 

He moves quicker than thought, two quick, graceful steps back to the ball and taking the corner before the Barcelona players even have their bearings, and by the time anyone’s processed what’s going on, Origi’s headed it into the back of the neck and the players are all piling onto Trent, and Jamie’s tattered voice is growing weaker, but it’s buoyed by the sea of voices around him and they _sing_.

 

The whistle blows a short eternity later, and the Barcelona players look up at the sky in disbelief. The Liverpool players look up to the sky too, thanking their gods for getting them through this, somehow, by the grace of their sweat and their tears and their strength of their hearts.

 

He looks for Stevie, to share this moment with him the way they’ve shared so many others.

 

His seat is empty.

 

Jamie’s first instinct is to find him, and he looks around, but he can’t see him, and he knows him well enough that if he was there, he’d recognize him, from something as small as the slope of his back, or the precise cut of his hair.

 

He’s gone.

 

Jamie stays anyway, and sings, and sings, and _sings_.

 

He takes a video on his phone and screams that this is the best day ever, and means it with every bone in his body, the glory and joy of every previous victory paling for the moment.

 

The players sing back to them, arms around each other, forming a single, unbreakable chain that makes Jamie believe, because no matter who they face, he knows they can win.

 

The stadium empties slowly, that night, and nobody has the heart to grumble about the traffic.

 

So Jamie drives slowly, one of a thousand cars that’s trying to get out from Anfield to get to his destination.

 

He drives to his own house, and then watches as his foot presses down on the accelerator and drives up the street to a few houses past his. He parks his car, and rings the doorbell.

 

Stevie opens the door and looks at him, the bright, exhausted joy on his face almost enough to wash out the weariness.

 

“You weren’t there when the final whistle blew,” Jamie remarks, as he enters the home he knows nearly as well as his own.

 

Stevie shrugs and mumbles something about an early morning, something about a commitment he had to arrive for.

 

Jamie waits out the bullshit excuses and raises an eyebrow.

 

“I just couldn’t,” he admits, with a quiet sigh, “I just couldn’t stand to be there anymore. I was going mad. My hands were cramping, that’s how hard I was squeezing them, J. I couldn’t stand to see them lose—I can’t take it anymore, not this kind of loss. God, Rangers lose sometimes—hell, _Liverpool_ lose sometimes! And I _know_ that that’s part of the game, but god, J, I just couldn’t take this kind of loss again, thinking that we had a shot and then losing it in a second.”

 

Jamie wishes with all of his foolish, reckless heart, that he could give this man peace, somehow. So he steps forward and wraps his arms around him.

 

There’s a faint tremor in Stevie’s muscles, especially those of his shoulders and arms, just as Jamie had suspected.

 

“You’re too wired,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Stevie’s temple, “we need to get you to unwind a little bit.”

 

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Stevie asks, a familiar heat in his voice.

 

“Not that,” Jamie says absently, “you’re not going to enjoy it and you’re going to try to go too far. And I don’t get off on you using my body to punish yourself.”

 

“I’m not a child, Jamie—“ Stevie’s voice has a hint of anger to it.

 

“Do you really think I’m not aware of that?”

 

Stevie sighs and looks away.

 

“Come on,” Jamie says finally, wrapping his fingers loosely around Stevie’s wrist and leading him upstairs. Stevie follows silently.

 

They stand in Stevie’s bedroom, looking down at his bed, and Jamie starts unbuttoning Stevie’s shirt, noting the hitch in his breathing and trying not to smile.

 

“I thought you said we weren’t going to—“ Stevie sounds confused and younger than he has any right to, and it makes something in Jamie’s chest flare up.

 

“We’re not.” Jamie slips Stevie’s shirt off his shoulders, and goes to work on his belt, unbuckling it smoothly and dropping it to the floor. He unbuttons his trousers and undoes his fly, and Stevie obediently steps out of the navy blue pants.

 

“J?”

 

“Lay down, Steve, on your stomach.”

 

Stevie does, turning to look at Jamie after, as if he wants to be told he’s done it right. His pupils are dilated, blown wide as if he can’t stop his body from thinking that they’re going to have sex.

 

Jamie settles behind him on the bed, sitting at his feet, and leans down and wraps a hand around his ankle. He shifts upwards, feeling the swell of his calf, and he presses his hands into the flesh.

 

He pushes and rubs and digs into the muscle, and Stevie lets out a little groan. He moves up a little bit and kisses the back of Stevie’s knee, relishing the little involuntary kick Stevie can’t control.

 

He digs into Stevie’s thick, meaty hamstrings, both hands wrapped around one thigh and pressing into the flesh. He doesn’t move to the other until the muscle is soft and relaxed under his touch.

 

He lets his hands slide inwards, and works on his adductors, tantalizingly close to where Stevie actually wants him. He keeps it brief there, though, because the purpose of this is to help Stevie relax, not wind him up even tighter than before.

 

Then he works the outside of Stevie’s thighs, rubbing firm circles over his IT band and working up from his knee to his hip and back down. Stevie lets out a little sound of pain, and Jamie soothes him.

 

“I know, I know, love, your IT bands are always tight. You need to be more diligent about stretching or foam rolling, okay? Over time, you know it’ll stop hurting as much,” Jamie soothes softly, glancing up the long, pale expanse of Stevie’s back to see his face, pillowed on folded arms and turned to one side.

 

There’s a pause for a moment, and he knows that he and Stevie are both thinking about his glutes, and whether Jamie’s going to go there.

 

Stevie’s still wearing his briefs, tight black cloth nestled right against his ass.

 

Jamie takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves and his hands, and shifts so he’s sitting next to Stevie’s hips, knowing he probably won’t get the best leverage, but he can’t exactly straddle him, not now.

 

He places his hands on the round, firm muscles.

 

Stevie lets out a little whimper, nearly a moan, and Jamie suppresses his own reaction to that sound in favor of making sure that he’s thorough and Stevie is completely relaxed.

 

He shifts up quickly to Stevie’s lower back, taking in the dimples at the small of his back and the long, delicate curve of his spine.

 

He leans down and presses a kiss to each of the sacral dimples before he starts massaging the muscles of Stevie’s lower back.

 

He shifts upwards slowly, and spends extra time on Stevie’s lats, the long, thick sheets of muscle draped over his ribs and anchored to his hips. He works on Stevie’s rotator cuffs, makes sure the muscles attached to his shoulder blades are attended to.

 

Finally, he’s at Stevie’s shoulders, and Stevie’s so _close_ , it nearly takes his breath away. He can see each of the eyelashes of his closed eyes, sweeping over his skin, the straight line of his nose, one side of a pair of familiar lips, leading right down over a chin that’s rough with stubble.

 

He presses a kiss to the nape of Stevie’s neck and sinks his hands into his shoulders, digging into the trapezius muscles that are still hard with tension.

 

They’re the toughest yet, and Jamie alternates between one side and the other, softening them up slowly and methodically, until Stevie’s face is no longer contorted into an expression of muted pain, features slack and relaxed again.

 

“Done?” Stevie asks him drowsily, eyes fluttering open for just a second.

 

“Not yet, Steve.” Jamie shifts away, giving him some space. “Turn over for me.”

 

Stevie does, turns over and lays on his back and Jamie does his absolute best not to show how much this is affecting him.

 

He moves back down to Stevie’s feet, and starts again, moving quickly up his shins. He takes his time with Stevie’s quads, large and strong.

 

“Always knew you were a thigh man,” Stevie mutters, watching him with his arms folded behind his head.

 

Jamie just glares at him playfully, and leans down to press his lips to the bony crest of Stevie’s left hip.

 

“Other side too?” Stevie asks quietly, “or it’ll think you’re playing favorites.”

 

“I would never,” Jamie says gravely, pressing his lips to Stevie’s right hipbone just to make sure he’s being fair.

 

He massages along Stevie’s sides, quickly working on the bottom of his ribs where his abs attach, and runs his hands over the pectorals, too, just for the sake of completeness.

 

At that point, he’s given up the pretense of a massage, and he’s just running his hands over Stevie’s skin, categorizing every inch of him.

 

The only thing left is his arms. He pulls one arm out from under Stevie’s head and carefully works on the muscles of his biceps, his triceps, and his deltoids before going down to his forearms.

 

Finally, he’s done, and there’s no putting it off anymore. Stevie’s eyes follow him as he gets up, off the bed and onto the carpet.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

Jamie doesn’t answer, just pulls his shirt out of his trousers, unbuttoning it. He undoes his belt, and then steps out of his gray trousers, settling back on the bed.

 

He maneuvers Stevie’s body under the covers, and then joins him.

 

“Last time you did that for me was Istanbul,” Stevie mumbles, turning to look at him.

 

Jamie freezes. “You were drunk, then. I didn’t think you still remembered that.”

 

“I do.”

 

Jamie remembers back to that night in Istanbul, where the air was cool and the world smelled of beer and sweat and victory. He remembers the darkness of their hotel room, of Stevie shaking in his arms uncontrollably.

 

He remembers turning on a lamp and massaging every single muscle in Stevie’s body (save one rather important one), and crawling into bed with him afterwards.

 

_What are the nerves for? We’ve won it, Steve. We’re going to wake up tomorrow, and we’ll still have won it. This wasn’t a dream. I promise._

 

“Save your nerves, Steve. We haven’t won it yet.”

 

Stevie hums. “I wish it was still us, J.”

 

Jamie holds him tighter. “I know, love.”

 

“But at least we still get to have this.” Stevie’s eyes are at half-mast, lowering slowly.

 

Jamie doesn’t say anything, but he has one last distinct thought before he falls asleep.

 

_You can have this whenever you need it._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Samuel Johnson quote "The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken."


End file.
